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A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 


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Birthplace  of  Shakespeare 


A 

WARWICKSHIRE 
LAD 

THE-  STORY- OF-TIE-BOTHOOD 
OF-XULLIAM  SHAKESPEARE^ 


GEORGE'MADDEM-NMriM 

Author  of  "Selina*lEmmy  LouT  <&£p 


D.  APPLETOm;  PCOMPAT1T 
M  EW  TQRK  MDCCCCXVILOMDON 


COPYRIGHT,  1916,  BY 
D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1903,  BY  P.  F.  COLLIER  &  SON,  Inc. 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

Birthplace  of  Shakespeare     .     .  Frontispiece 

PAGE 

"Will   clambered   up   on   the   settle   to 

think  it  all  over" 17 

"Dad  bends  to  tweak  the  ear  of  Will"  .       23 

"  'Ay,  but  those  are  brave  words,  Ham- 

mie,'  says  Gammer" 35 

"'Save  us!  What's  that!'  cried  Gam- 
mer"   faring  page  40 

"  'Ay,  boy,  you  shall  see  the  players'  "       45 

"  'An'   I   shall   be   a   player,   too,'  .  .  . 

says  Willy   Shakespeare"      ...       53 

"His  mother  stepping  now  and  then  to 

the  lattice  window" 57 

"Bound   for   Grandfather's   at   Snitter- 

field    they   were" 67 

"For  instance  he  knew  one  Bar- 
dolph  ...  the  tapster  at  the  tav- 
ern" ...  73 

"Hidden  away  among  the  willows  .  .  . 

he  spends  the  morning"  ....       79 
v 


459198 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

"The  two  have  run  away  ...  to  wan- 
der about  the  river  banks"  .  .  . 

facing  page  86 

"He  .  .  .  trudged  up  the  path  and 

peered  in  at  the  open  door"  ...  89 

'  'When  the  masterful  hand,  groping, 

seizes  mine,  I  shall  know  it'  "  .  .  93 

"This  strange  thing  called  Death  .  .  ." 

facing  page  98 

"Dad  ...  sat  staring  in  moody  silence"     101 

"Tall,  sturdy  Will  Shakespeare  could 
buy  up  cattle  ...  as  well  as  the 
butcher's  son" 109 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 


LITTLE  WILL  SHAKE- 
SPEARE was  going  home- 
ward through  the  dusk  from  Gam- 
mer GurtorTs  fireside.  He  had  no 
timorous  fears,  not  he.  He  would 
walk  proudly  and  deliberately  as  be- 
comes a  man.  Men  are  not  afraid. 
Yet  Gammer  had  told  of  strange 
happenings  at  her  home.  A  magpie 
had  flown  screaming  over  the  roof, 
the  butter  would  not  come  in  the 
churn,  an'  a  strange  cat  had  slipped 
out  afore  the  maid  at  daybreak — a 
cat  without  a  tail,  Gammer  said- 
Little  Will  quickened  his  pace. 
9 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

Dusk  falls  early  these  December 
days,  and  Willy  Shakespeare  scurry- 
ing along  the  street  is  only  five,  and 
although  men  are  not  afraid  yet- 
So  presently  when  he  pulls  up  he 
is  panting,  and  he  beats  against  the 
stubborn  street  door  with  little  red 
fists,  and  falls  in  at  its  sudden  open- 
ing, breathless. 

But  Mother's  finger  is  on  her  lips 
as  she  looks  up  from  her  low  chair 
in  the  living-room,  for  the  whole 
world  in  this  Henley  Street  house- 
hold stands  still  and  holds  its  breath 
when  Baby  Brother  sleeps.  Brought 
up  short,  Will  tiptoes  over  to  the 
chimney  corner.  Why  will  toes 
stump  when  one  most  wants  to  move 
noiselessly?  He  is  panting  still  too 
10 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

with  his  hurrying  and  with  all  he  has 
to  tell. 

"She  says,"  begins  Will  before  he 
has  even  reached  Mother's  side  and 
his  whisper  is  awesome,  "Gammer 
says  that  Margery  is  more  than  any 
ailing  she  is." 

Now  chimney  corners  may  be 
wide  and  generous  and  cheerful 
with  their  blazing  log,  but  they  open 
into  rooms  which  as  night  comes 
on  grow  big  and  shadowy,  with 
flickers  up  against  the  raftered  dark- 
ness of  the  ceilings.  Little  Will 
Shakespeare  presses  closer  to  his 
mother's  side.  "She  says,  Gammer 
does,  she  says  that  Margery  is 
witched." 

Now  Margery  was  the  serving- 
ii 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

maid  at  the  house  of  Gammer  Gur- 
ton's  son-in-law,  Goodman  Sadler, 
with  whom  Gammer  lived. 

Mother  at  this  speaks  sharply. 
She  is  outdone  about  it.  "A  pretty 
tale  for  a  child  to  be  hearing,"  she 
says.  "It  is  but  a  fearbabe.  I  won- 
der at  Gammer,  I  do." 

And  turning  aside  from  the  cradle 
which  she  has  been  rocking,  she  lifts 
small  Will  to  her  lap,  and  he  stretch- 
ing frosty  fingers  and  toes  all  tingling 
to  the  heat,  snuggles  close.  He  is 
glad  Mother  speaks  sharply  and  is 
outdone  about  it;  somehow  this 
makes  it  more  reassuring. 

"Witched!"  says  Mother.  "Tell 
me!  'Tis  lingering  in  the  lane  after 
dark  with  that  gawky  country  sweet- 

12 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

heart  has  given  her  the  fever  that 
her  betters  have  been  having  since 
the  Avon  come  over  bank.  A  wet 
autumn  is  more  to  be  feared  than 
Gammer's  witches.  Poor  luck  it  is 
the  lubberfolk  aren't  after  the  girl 
in  truth;  a  slattern  maid  she  is,  her 
hearth  unswept  and  house-door  al- 
ways open  and  the  cream  ever 
a-chill.  The  brownie-folk,  I  promise 
you,  Will,  pinch  black  and  blue  for 
less." 

Mother  is  laughing  at  him.  Lit- 
tle Will  recognizes  that  and  smiles 
back,  but  half-heartedly,  for  he  is 
not  through  confessing. 

"I  don't  like  to  wear  it  down  my 
back,"  says  he.  "It  tickles." 

"Wear  what?"  asks  Mother,  but 
13 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

even  as  she  speaks  must  partly  di- 
vine, for  a  finger  and  thumb  go 
searching  down  between  his  little 
nape  and  the  collar  of  his  doublet, 
and  in  a  moment  they  draw  it  forth, 
a  bit  of  witches'  elm. 

"Gammer,  she  sewed  it  there," 
says  Will. 

A  little  frown  was  gathering  be- 
tween Mother's  brows,  which  was 
making  small  Willy  Shakespeare 
feel  still  more  reassured  and  com- 
fortable, when  suddenly  she  gave  a 
cry  and  start,  half  rising,  so  that  he, 
startled  too,  slid  perforce  to  the 
floor,  clinging  to  her  gown. 

Whereupon  Mother  sank  back  in 
her  chair,  her  hand  pressed  against 
the  kerchief  crossed  over  her  bosom, 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

and  laughed  shamefacedly,  for  it  had 
been  nothing  more  terrible  that  had 
startled  her  than  big,  purring  Gray- 
malkin,  the  cat,  insinuating  his  sleek 
back  under  her  hand  as  he  arched 
and  rubbed  about  her  chair.  And 
so,  sitting  down  shamefacedly,  she 
gathered  Will  up  again  and  called 
him  goose  and  little  chuck,  as  if  he 
and  not  she  had  been  the  one  to  jump 
and  cry  out. 

But  he  laughed  boisterously.  The 
joke  was  on  Mother,  and  so  he 
laughed  loud,  as  becomes  a  man 
when  the  joke  is  on  the  women  folk. 

"Ho!"  said  Will  Shakespeare. 

"Sh-h-h!"  said  Mother. 

But  the  mischief  was  done  and 
Will  must  get  out  of  her  lap,  for  lit- 
15 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

tie  Brother  Gilbert,  awakened,  was 
whimpering  in  the  cradle. 

Will  clambered  up  on  the  settle 
to  think  it  all  over.  Mother  had 
started  and  cried  out.  So  after  all 
was  Mother  afraid  too?  Of — of 
things?  Had  she  said  it  all  to  reas- 
sure him?  The  magpie  had  flown 
screaming  over  the  house  for  he  had 
seen  it.  So  what  if  the  rest  were 
true — that  the  cat,  the  cat  without  the 
tail  stealing  out  at  daybreak,  had 
been — what  Gammer  said — a  witch, 
weaving  overnight  her  spell  about 
poor  Margery?  He  knew  how  it 
would  have  been;  he  had  heard 
whispers  about  these  things  before; 
the  dying  embers  on  the  hearth,  the 
little  waxen  figure  laid  to  melt  there- 
16 


"Will  clambered  up  on  the  settle  to  think  it  all 
over" 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

on,  the  witch-woman  weaving  the 
charm  about — now  swifter,  faster 
circling — with  passes  of  hands  above. 

Little  Will  Shakespeare,  terrified 
at  his  own  imaginings,  clutched  him- 
self, afraid  to  move.  Is  that  only  a 
shadow  yonder  in  the  corner,  now 
creeping  toward  him,  now  stealing 
away? 

What  is  that  at  the  pane?  Is  it 
the  frozen  twigs  of  the  old  pippin, 
or  the  tapping  fingers  of  some  night 
creature  without? 

Will  Shakespeare  falls  off  the  set- 
tle in  his  haste  and  scuttles  to  Moth- 
er. Once  there,  he  hopes  she  does 
not  guess  why  he  hangs  to  her  so 
closely.  But  he  is  glad,  nevertheless, 
when  the  candles  are  brought  in. 
19 


II 


BUT  these  things  all  vanish  from 
mind  when  the  outer  door 
opens  and  Dad  comes  in  stamping 
and  blowing.  Dad  is  late,  but  men 
are  always  late.  It  is  expected  that 
they  should  come  in  late  and  laugh  at 
the  women  who  chide  and  remind 
them  that  candles  cost  and  that  it 
makes  the  maid  testy  to  be  kept  wait- 
ing. 

Men  should  laugh  loud  like  Dad, 
and  catch  Mother  under  the  chin 
and  kiss  her  once,  twice,  three  times. 
Will  means  to  be  just  such  a  man 
when  he  grows  up,  and  to  fill  the 
20 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

room  with  his  big  shoulders  and  big- 
ger laugh  as  Dad  is  doing  now  while 
tossing  Brother  Gilbert.  He,  little 
Will,  he  will  never  be  one  like 
Goodman  Sadler,  Gammer's  son-in- 
law,  with  a  lean,  long  nose,  and  a 
body  slipping  flatlike  through  a 
crack  of  the  door. 

And  here  Dad  bends  to  tweak  the 
ear  of  Will  who  would  laugh  noisily 
if  it  hurt  twice  as  badly.  It  makes 
him  feel  himself  a  man  to  wink  back 
those  tears  of  pain. 

"A  busy  afternoon  this,  Mary," 
says  Dad.  "Old  Timothy  Quinn 
from  out  Welcombe  way  was  in 
haggling  over  a  dozen  hides  to  sell. 
Then  Burbage  was  over  from  Coven- 
try about  that  matter  of  the  players, 
21 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

and  kept  me  so  that  I  had  to  send 
Bardolph  out  with  your  Cousin 
Lambert  to  Wilmcote  to  mark  that 
timber  for  felling." 

Now  for  all  Master  Shakespeare's 
big,  off-hand  mentioning  thus  of 
facts,  this  was  meant  for  a  confes- 
sion. 

Mary  Shakespeare  had  risen  to 
take  the  crowing  Gilbert,  handed 
back  to  her  by  her  husband,  and  with 
the  other  hand  was  encircling  Will, 
holding  to  her  skirt.  She  was  tall, 
with  both  grace  and  state,  and  there 
was  a  chestnut  warmth  in  the  hair 
about  her  clear,  white  brow  and 
nape,  and  in  the  brown  of  her  serene 
and  tender  eyes.  These  eyes  smiled 
at  John  Shakespeare  with  a  hint  of 
22 


'Dad  bends  to  tweak  the  ear  of  Will" 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

upbraiding,  and  she  shook  her  head 
at  him  with  playful  reproach. 

Little  Will  saw  her  do  it.  He 
knew  too  how  to  interpret  such  a 
look.  Had  Father  been  naughty? 

"You  are  not  selling  more  of  the 
timber,  John?"  asked  Mother. 

"Say  the  word,  Mistress  Mary  Ar- 
den  of  the  Asbies,"  says  Father 
grandly,  "and  I  stop  the  bargain 
with  your  Cousin  Lambert  where  it 
stands.  'Tis  yours  to  say  about  your 
own.  Though  nothing  spend,  how 
shall  a  man  live  up  to  his  state?  But 
it  shall  be  as  you  say,  although  'tis 
for  you  and  the  boy.  He  is  the  chief 
bailiff's  son — his  Dad  can  feel  he  has 
given  him  that,  but  would  have  him 
more.  I  have  never  forgot  your  peo- 
25 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

pie  felt  their  Mary  stepped  down  to 
wed  a  Shakespeare.  I  have  applied 
to  the  Herald's  College  for  a  grant 
of  arms.  The  Shakespeares  are  as 
good  as  any  who  fought  to  place  the 
crown  on  Henry  VIFs  head.  But  it 
shall  be  stopped.  The  land  and  the 
timber  on  it  is  Mistress  Mary  Shake- 
speare's, not  mine." 

But  Mary,  pushing  little  Will 
aside  clung  to  her  husband's  arm, 
and  the  warmth  in  her  tender  eyes 
deepened  to  something  akin  to 
yearning  as  they  looked  up  at  him. 
With  the  man  of  her  choice,  and  her 
children — with  these  Mary  Shake- 
speare's life  and  heart  were  full. 
There  was  no  room  for  ambition  for 
she  was  content.  Had  life  been  any 
26 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

sweeter  to  her  as  Mary  Arden  of 
the  Asbies,  daughter  of  a  gentleman, 
than  as  Mary  Shakespeare,  wife  of 
a  dealer  in  leathers?  Nay,  nor  as 
sweet! 

But  she  could  not  make  her  hus- 
band see  it  so.  Yet — and  she  looked 
up  at  him  with  a  sudden  passion  of 
love  in  that  gaze — it  was  this  big, 
sanguine,  restless,  masterful  spirit  in 
him  that  had  won  her.  From  the 
narrow,  restricted  conditions  of  a 
provincial  gentlewoman's  life,  she 
had  looked  out  into  a  bigger  world 
for  living,  through  the  eyes  of  this 
masterful  yeoman,  his  heart  big  with 
desire  to  conquer  and  ambition  to 
achieve.  Was  her  faith  in  his  ca- 
pacity to  know  and  seize  the  essen- 
27 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

tial  in  his  venturing,  less  now  than 
then?  Never,  never — not  that,  not 
that! 

"Do  as  you  will  about  it,  John," 
begs  Mary,  her  cheek  against  his 
arm,  "only — is  it  kind  to  say  the  land 
is  mine?  We  talked  that  all  out 
once,  goodman  mine.  Only  this  one 
thing  more,  John,  for  I  would  not 
seem  ever  to  carp  and  faultfind— 
you  know  that,  don't  you? — but  that 
Bardolph- 

"He's  a  low  tavern  fellow,  I  al- 
low, Mary — of  course,  of  course.  I 
know  all  you  would  say — his  nose 
afire  and  his  ruffian  black  poll  ever 
being  broken  in  some  brawl,  but  he's 
a  good  enough  fellow  behind  it,  and 
useful  to  me.  You  needs  must  keep 
28 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

on  terms  with  high  and  low,  Mary, 
to  hold  the  good  will  of  all.  That's 
why  I  am  anxious  to  arrange  this 
matter  with  Burbage  to  have  the 
players  here,  if  the  Guild  will  con- 
sent  " 

"Players?"  says  Will,  listening  at 
his  father's  side.  "What  are  play- 
ers?" 

"Tut,"  says  Dad,  "not  know  the 
players!     They  are  actors,  Will- 
players.     Hear  the  boy — not  know 
the  players!" 

But  Mother  strokes  his  hair. 
"When  I  told  you  a  tale,  sweet,  this 
very  morn,  you  went  to  playing  it 
after.  I  was  the  Queen-mother,  you 
said,  outside  the  prison  walls,  and 
you  and  Brother  were  the  little 
29 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

Princes  in  the  cruel  tower,  and  thus 
you  played.  You  stood  at  the  case- 
ment, two  gentle  babes,  cradling 
each  other  in  your  arms,  and  called 
to  me  below.  So  with  the  players, 
child,  they  play  the  story  out  instead 
of  telling  it.  But  now,  these  my 
babes  to  bed." 


Ill 

THE  next  day  things  seem  dif- 
ferent. One  no  longer  feels 
afraid,  while  the  memory  of  Gam- 
mer's tales  is  alluring.  Will  remem- 
bers, too,  that  greens  from  the  forest 
were  ordered  sent  to  the  Sadlers  for 
the  making  of  garlands  for  the  Town 
Hall  revels.  Small  Willy  Shake- 
speare slipped  off  from  home  that 
afternoon. 

Reaching  the  Sadlers,  he  stopped 
on  the  threshold  abashed.  The  liv- 
ing-room was  filled  with  neighbors 
come  to  help — young  men,  girls, 
with  here  and  there  some  older 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

folk — all  gathered  about  a  pile  of 
greens  in  the  center  of  the  floor,  from 
which  each  was  choosing  his  bit, 
while  garlands  and  wreaths  half 
done  lay  about  in  the  rushes. 

But,  though  his  baby  soul  dreams 
it  not,  there  is  ever  a  place  and  wel- 
come for  a  chief  bailiff's  little  son. 
They  turn  at  his  entrance,  and  Mis- 
tress Sadler  bids  him  come  in;  her 
cousin  at  her  elbow  praises  his  eyes 
—shade  of  hazel  nut,  she  calls  them. 
And  Gammer,  peering  to  find  the 
cause  of  interruption  and  spying 
him,  pushes  a  stool  out  from  under 
her  feet  and  curving  a  yellow,  shak- 
ing finger,  beckons  and  points  him  to 
it.  But  while  doing  so,  she  does  not 
stay  her  quavering  and  garrulous  re- 
32 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

cital.    He  has  come,  then,  in  time  to 
hear  the  tale? 

"An'  the  man,  by  name  of  Gos- 
ling," Gammer  is  saying,  "dwelt  by 
a  churchyard- 
Will  Shakespeare  slips  to  his  place 
on  the  stool. 

Hamnet  is  next  to  him,  Hamnet 
Sadler  who  is  eight,  almost  a  man 
grown.  Hamnet's  cheeks  are  red 
and  hard  and  shining,  and  he  stands 
square  and  looks  you  in  the  face. 
Hamnet  has  a  fist,  too,  and  has 
thrashed  the  butcher's  son  down  by 
the  Rother  Market,  though  the 
butcher's  son  is  nine. 

Here  Hamnet  nudges  Will.  What 
is  this  he  is  saying?    About  Gammer, 
his  very  own  grandame? 
3  33 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

"Ben't  no  witches,"  mutters  Ham- 
net  to  Will.  "Schoolmaster  says  so. 
Says  the  like  of  Gammer's  talk  is 
naught  but  women's  tales." 

Whereupon  Gammer  pauses  and 
turns  her  puckered  eyes  down  upon 
the  two  urchins  at  her  knee.  Has 
she  heard  what  her  grandson  said? 
Will  Shakespeare  feels  as  guilty  as 
if  he  had  been  the  one  to  say  it. 

"Ay,  but  those  are  brave  words, 
Hammie,"  says  Gammer,  and  she 
wags  her  sharp  chin  knowingly; 
"brave  words.  An'  you  shall  take 
the  bowl  yonder  and  fetch  a  round  o' 
pippins  from  the  cellar  for  us  here. 
Candle?  La,  you  know  the  way  full 
well.  The  dusk  is  hardly  fell.  Nay, 
you're  not  plucking  Judith's  sleeve, 
34 


'Ay,  but  those  are  brave  words,  Hammie,'  says 
Gammer" 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

Hammie?  You  are  not  a  lad  to  want 
a  sister  at  elbow?  Go,  now!  What 
say  you,  Mistress  Snelling?  The 
tale?  An'  Willy  Shakespeare  here, 
all  eyes  and  open  mouth  for  it,  too? 
Ay,  but  he's  the  rascalliest  sweet 
younker  for  the  tale.  An'  where 
were  we?  Ay,  the  fat  woman  of 
Brentford  had  just  come  to  Good- 
man Gosling's  house— 

"Come  back  an'  shut  the  door  be- 
hind you,  Hammie;  there's  more 
than  a  nip  to  these  December  gales. 
I  faith,  how  the  lad  drumbles,  a 
clumsy  lob— 

"As  you  say,  the  fat  woman  of 
Brentford,  one  Gossip  Pratt  by 
name,  an'  a  two  yards  round  by  com- 
mon say  she  was,  an'  that  beard 
37 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

showing  on  her  chin  under  her 
thrummed  hat  an'  muffler,  a  man 
with  score  o'  years  to  beard  need  not 
be  ashamed  of — this  same  woman 
comes  to  Goodman  Gosling's,  him  as 
dwelt  by  the  churchyard.  But  he, 
avised  about  her  dealings,  sent  her 
speedily  away,  most  like  not  choos- 
ing his  words,  him  being  of  a  jan- 
dered,  queazy  stomach,  an'  some- 
thing given  to  tongue.  For  an  hour 
following  her  going,  an'  you'll  be- 
lieve me — an'  I  had  it  from  his  wife's 
cousin  a-come  ten  year  this  simple 
time  when  I  visited  my  sister's 
daughter  Nan  at  Brentford — his 
hogs  fell  sick  an'  died  to  the  number 
o'  twenty  an'  he  helpless  afore  their 
bloating  and  swelling. 
38 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

"Nor  did  it  end  there,  for  his 
children  falling  ill  soon  after — a 
pretty  dears  they  were,  I  mind  them, 
a-hanging  of  their  heads  to  see  a 
stranger,  an'  a  finger  in  mouth — they 
falling  sick,  the  woman  of  Brentford 
come  again,  an'  this  time  all  afraid 
to  say  her  nay.  An'  layin'  of?  her 
cloak,  she  took  the  youngest  from  the 
mother's  breast,  dandling  an'  chuck- 
ing it  like  an  honest  woman,  where- 
upon it  fell  a-sudden  in  a  swoon. 

"An'  Goodwife  Gosling  seizing  it, 
an'  mindful  of  her  being  a  witch- 
woman,  calling  on  the  name  of  God, 
straightway  there  fell  out  of  the 
child's  blanket  a  great  toad  which 
exploded  in  the  fire  like  any  gun- 
powder, an'  the  room  that  full  o' 
39 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAI) 

smoke  an'  brimstone  as  none  could 
Save  us!    What's  that!"  cried  Gam- 
mer. 

What,  indeed!  That  cry — this 
rush  along  the  passageway!  Will 
Shakespeare,  with  heart  a-still, 
clutches  at  Gammer's  gown  as  there 
follows  a  crash  against  the  oaken 
panels. 

But  as  the  door  bursts  open,  it  is 
Hamnet,  head-first,  sprawling  into 
the  room,  the  pippins  preceding  him 
over  the  floor. 

"It  were  ahind  me,  breathin' 
hoarse,  on  the  cellar  stairs,"  whim- 
pers Hamnet,  gathering  himself  to 
his  knees,  his  fist  burrowing  into  his 
eyes. 

Nor  does  he  know  why  at  this  mo- 
40 


« 

o 

-o 


.C 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

ment  the  laughter  rises  loud.  For 
Hamnet  cannot  see  what  the  others 
can — the  white  nose  of  Clowder,  the 
asthmatic  old  house-dog,  coming  in- 
quiringly over  his  shoulder,  her  tail 
^ing  inquiry  as  to  the  wherefore 
of  the  uproar. 

But  somehow,  little  Will  Shake- 
speare did  not  laugh.  Instead  his 
checks  and  his  ears  burned  hot  for 
Hamnet.  Judith  did  not  laugh 
cither.  Judith  was  ten,  and  Ham- 
net's  sister,  and  her  black  eyes 
flashed  around  on  them  all  for  laugh- 
ing, and  her  cheeks  were  hot.  Ju- 
dith flung  a  look  at  Gammer,  too, 
her  own  Gammer.  And  Will's  heart 
warmed  to  Judith,  and  he  went  too 
when  she  sprang  to  help  Hamnet 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

Hamnet's  face  was  scarlet  yet  as 
he  fumbled  around  among  the  rush- 
es and  the  greens  for  the  pippins,  and 
this  done  he  retired  hastily  to  his 
stool.  But  three-legged  stools  are 
uncertain,  and  he  sat  him  heavily 
down  on  the  rushes  instead. 

Whereupon  they  laughed  the 
louder,  the  girls  and  the  women  too 
-laughed  until  the  candle  flames 
flickered  and  flared,  and  Gammer, 
choking  over  her  bowl,  for  cates  and 
cider  were  being  handed  round, 
spilled  the  drink  all  down  her  with- 
ered neck  and  over  her  gown,  wheez- 
ing and  gasping  until  her  daughter 
snatched  the  bowl  from  her  and 
shook  the  breath  back  into  her  with 
no  gentle  hand. 

42 


IV 

MEANWHILE  Will  plucked 
Hamnct  now  blubbering  on 
his  stool,  by  the  doublet.  But  Ham- 
net,  turned  sullen,  shook  him  off. 
Perhaps  he  did  not  know  that  Will 
and  Judith  had  not  laughed.  But 
since  Hamnet  saw  fit  to  shake  him 
off,  Will  was  glad  that  just  then,  with 
a  rush  of  cold  air  and  a  sprinkling  of 
snow  upon  his  short  coat,  Dad  came 
in.  His  face  was  ruddy,  and  as  he 
glanced  laughingly  around  upon 
them  all,  he  drew  deep  breath  of  the 
spicy  evergreens,  so  that  he  filled  his 
43 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

doublet  and  close-throated  jerkin  to 
their  full. 

"Good-even  to  you,  neighbors/1 
says  Dad.  "An'  is  it  great  wonder  the 
boy  will  run  away  to  hie  him  here? 
The  rogue  kens  a  good  thing  equal 
to  his  elders.  But  come,  boy;  your 
mother  is  even  now  sure  you  have 
wandered  to  the  river." 

And  Dad,  with  a  mighty  swing, 
shoulders  Will,  steadying  him  with 
a  palm  under  both  small  feet;  then 
pauses  at  Mistress  Sncl ling's  ques- 
tioning. 

"Is  it  true,"  she  inquires,  "that  the 
players  are  coming?" 

Sandy-hued  Mistress  Sadler  stif- 
fens and  bridles  at  the  question.  The 
Sadlers,  whisper  says,  are  Puritan- 
44 


'Ay,  boy,  you  shall  see  the  players'  " 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

ical,  whereas  there  are  those  who 
hold  that  John  Shakespeare  and  his 
household,  for  all  they  are  observant 
of  church  matters,  have  still  a  Catho- 
lic leaning.  Fond  of  genial  John 
Shakespeare  as  the  Sadler  household 
are,  they  shake  their  heads  over  some 
things,  and  the  players  are  one  of 
these. 

"Is  it  true  they  are  coming?"  re- 
peats Mistress  Snelling. 

"Ay,"  says  Dad,  "an'  John  Shake 
speare  the  man  to  be  thanked  for  it. 
Come  Twelfth  Day  sennight,  at  the 
Guild  Hall,  Mistress  Snelling." 

"Am  I  to  see  them,  Dad?"  whis- 
pers small  Will,  his  head  down  and 
an  arm  tight  about  his  father's  neck 
as  they  go  out  the  door. 
47 


A  WARWICKSHIRE, LAD 

"Ay,  you  inch,"  promises  Dad, 
stooping,  too,  as  they  go  under  the 
lintel  beneath  the  penthouse  roof,  out 
into  the  frosty  night.  The  stars  are 
beginning  to  twinkle  through  the 
dusk,  and  the  frozen  path  crunches 
underfoot.  On  each  side,  as  they  go 
up  the  street,  the  yards  about  the 
houses  stand  bare  and  gaunt  with 
leafless  stalks. 

"Yes,"  says  Dad.  "Ay,  boy,  you 
shall  see  the  players  from  between 
Dad's  knees." 

And  like  the  old  familiar  stories 
we  put  on  the  shelf,  gloating  the 
while  over  the  unproven  treas- 
ures between  the  lids  of  the  new, 
straightway  Gammer's  tales  are  for- 
got. And  above  the  wind,  as  it 
48 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

whips  scurries  of  snow  around  the 
corners,  pipes  Will's  voice  as  they 
trudge  home.  But  his  pipings,  his 
catechisings,  now  are  concerned  with 
this  unknown  world  summed  up  in 
the  magic  term,  "The  Players." 


AND  Dad  was  as  good  as  his 
word.  First  came  Christmas- 
tide,  with  all  Master  Shakespeare's 
fellow  burgesses  to  dine  and  the 
house  agog  with  preparation.  No 
wonder  John  Shakespeare  had  need 
of  money  to  live  up  to  his  estate,  for 
next  came  the  Twelfth  Night  revels 
with  the  mummers  and  waits  to  he- 
fed  and  boxed  at  the  chief  bailiff's 
door.  And  Mary  Shakespeare  said 
never  a  word,  but  did  her  husband's 
bidding  cheerfully,  even  gayly.  She 
had  set  herself  to  go  his  way  with 
faith  in  his  power  to  wrest  success 
50 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

out  of  venture,  and  she  was  not  one 
to  take  back  her  word. 

The  week  following,  John  Shake- 
speare carried  his  little  son  to  see 
the  players. 

"And  was  it  not  as  I  said?"  Moth- 
er asked,  when  the  two  returned. 
"Did  not  the  child  fall  asleep  in  the 
midst  of  it?" 

"Sleep!"  laughed  Dad,  clapping 
Will,  so  fine  in  a  little  green  velvet 
coat,  upon  the  shoulder.  "He  sleep! 
You  do  not  know  the  boy.  His 
cheeks  were  like  your  best  winter 
apples,  an'  his  eyes,  bless  the  rogue, 
are  shining  yet.  An'  trotting  home- 
ward at  my  heels,  he  has  scarce 
had  breath  to  run  for  talking  of  it. 
'Tis  in  the  blood,  boy;  your  father 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

before  you  loves  a  good  play,  an' 
the  players,  too." 

And  Will,  blowing  upon  his  nails 
aching  with  the  cold,  stands  square- 
ly with  his  small  legs  apart,  and  looks 
up  at  Father.  "An'  I  shall  be  a 
player,  too,  when  I'm  a  man,"  says 
Willy  Shakespeare.  "I  shall  be  a 
player  and  wear  a  dagger  like 
Herod,  an'  walk  about  an'  draw  it— 
so—  "  and  struts  him  up  and  down 
while  his  father  laughs  and  claps 
hand  to  knee  and  roars  again,  until 
Mistress  Shakespeare  tells  him  he  it 
is  who  spoils  the  child. 

But  for  Will  Shakespeare  the  cur- 
tain had  risen  on  a  new  world,  a 
world  of  giant,  of  hero,  of  story,  a 
world  of  glitter,  of  pageant,  of  scar- 
52 


"  'An'  I  shall  be  a  player,  too'  .  .  .  says  Willy 
Shakespeare" 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

let  and  purple  and  gold.  And  now 
henceforth  the  flagstoned  floor  about 
the  chimney  was  a  stage  upon  which 
Mother  and  Brother  and  Kitty,  the 
maid,  at  little  Will's  bidding,  with 
Will  himself,  played  a  part;  a  stage 
where  Virtue,  in  other  words  Will 
with  the  parcel-gilt  goblet  upside- 
down  upon  his  head  for  crown,  ever 
triumphed  over  Vice,  in  the  person 
of  dull  Kitty,  with  her  knitting  on 
the  stool;  or  where,  according  to  the 
play,  in  turn,  Noah  or  Abraham  or 
Jesus  Christ  walked  in  Heaven, 
while  Herod  or  Pilate,  Cain  or 
Judas,  burned  in  yawning  Hell. 


VI 

BUT  as  spring  came,  the  garden 
offered  a  broader  stage  for  life. 
The  Shakespeare  house  was  in  Hen- 
ley Street,  and  a  fine  house  it  v 
too  fine,  some  held,  for  a  man  in  John 
Shakespeare's  circumstances-  t\\<> 
storied,  of  timber  and  plaster,  with 
dormer-windows  and  a  penthouse 
over  its  door.  And  like  its  neigh- 
bors, the  house  stood  with  a  yard  at 
the  side,  and  behind,  a  garden  of 
flowers  and  fruit  and  herbs.  And 
here  the  boy  played  the  warm  days 
through,  his  mother  stepping  now 
and  then  to  the  lattice  window  to  see 

56 


"His  mother  stepping  now  and  then  to  the  lattice 
window 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

what  he  was  about.  And,  gazing, 
often  she  saw  him  through  tears,  be- 
cause of  a  yearning  love  over  him, 
the  more  because  of  the  two  children 
dead  before  his  coming. 

And  Will,  seeing  her  there,  would 
tear  into  the  house  and  drag  her  by 
the  hand  forth  into  the  sweet,  rain- 
washed  air. 

"An'  see,  Mother,"  he  would  tell 
her,  as  he  haled  her  on  to  the  sward 
beyond  the  arbor,  "here  it  is,  the 
story  you  told  us  yester-e'en.  Here 
is  the  ring  where  they  danced  last 
night,  the  little  folk,  an'  here  is  the 
glow-worm  caught  in  the  spider's 
web  to  give  them  light." 

But  something  had  changed  Mary 
Shakespeare's  mood.  John  Shake- 
59 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

speare,  chief  bailiff  and  burgess  of 
Stratford,  was  being  sued  for  an  old 
debt,  and  one  which  Mary  Shake- 
speare had  been  allowed  to  think 
was  paid.  Thereupon  came  to  light 
other  outstanding  debts  of  which  she 
had  not  known  which  must  be  met. 
John  Shakespeare,  with  irons  in  so 
many  fires,  seemed  forever  to  have 
put  money  out,  in  ventures  in  leather, 
in  wool,  in  corn,  in  timber,  and  to 
have  drawn  none  in.  And  now  he 
talked  of  a  mortgage  on  the  Asbies 
estate. 

"Never,"  Mary  told  herself,  with 
a  look  at  little  Will,  at  toddling 
Gilbert  at  her  feet,  with  a  thought 
for  the  unborn  child  soon  to  add 
another  inmate  to  the  household— 
60 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

"not  with  my  consent.  When  the 
time  comes  they  are  grown,  what 
will  be  left  for  them?" 

She  was  bitter  about  the  secrecy 
of  those  debts  incurred  unknown  to 
her.  And  yet  to  set  herself  against 
John! 

Wandering  with  the  children 
down  the  garden-path,  idly  she 
plucked  a  red  rose  and  laid  its  cheek 
against  a  white  one  already  in  her 
hand.  A  kingdom  divided  against 
itself. 

She  sighed,  then  became  conscious 
of  the  boy  pulling  at  her  sleeve. 

"Tell  us  a  story,  Mother,"  he  was 
begging,  "a  story  with  fighting  an'  a 
sword." 

"A  story,  Will,  with  fighting  and 
61 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

a  sword?"  Never  yet  could  she  say 
the  child  nay.  She  held  her  roses 
from  her  and  pondered  while  she 
gazed.  And  her  heart  was  bitter. 

"There  was  an  Arden,  child, 
whose 'blood  is  in  your  veins,  who 
fought  and  fell  at  Barnet,  crying 
shrill  and  fierce,  'Edward  my  King, 
St.  George  and  victory!'  And  the 
young  Edward,  near  him  as  he  fell, 
called  to  a  knight  to  lay  hand  to  his 
heart,  for  Edward  knew  and  loved 
him  well,  and  had  received  of  him 
money  for  a  long-forgotten  debt 
which  young  Edward's  father  would 
not  press.  So  Edward  called  to  a 
knight  to  lay  hand  upon  his  heart. 
But  he  was  dead.  *A  soldier  and  a 
knight,'  said  he  who  was  afterward 
62 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

the    King,    'and    more — an    honest 


man/ 


Then  she  pushed  the  boy  aside 
ami  going  swiftly  to  the  house  ran 
to  her  room;  and  face  laid  in  her 
hands  she  wept.  What  had  she  said 
in  the  bitterness  of  her  feeling? 
What — even  to  herself — had  she 
said? 

Yet  money  must  be  had,  she  ad- 
mitted that.  But  to  encumber  the 
estate  1 

She  shrank  from  her  own  people 
knowing;  she  had  inherited  more  of 
her  father's  estate  than  her  sisters, 
and  there  had  been  feeling,  and  her 
brothers-in-law,  Lambert  and  Webb, 
would  be  but  upheld  in  their 
prophecies  about  her  husband's  ca- 
63 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

pacity  to  care  for  her  property. 
She  would  not  have  them  know. 
"Talk  it  over  first  with  your  father, 
John,"  she  told  her  husband,  "or 
with  your  brother  Henry.  Let  us 
not  rush  blindly  into  this  tiling. 
You  had  promised  anyhow,  you  re- 
member, to  take  Will  out  to  the 
sheep-shearing." 


VII 

SO  the  next  morning  John  Shake- 
speare swung  Will  up  on  the 
horse  before  him,  and  the  two  rode 
away  through  the  chill  mistiness  of 
the  dawn,  Will  kissing  his  hand  back 
to  Mother  in  the  doorway.  Bound 
for  Grandfather's  at  Snitterfield  they 
were.  So  out  through  the  town, 
past  the  scattering  homesteads  with 
their  gardens  and  orchards,  traveled 
Robin,  the  stout  gray  cob,  small 
WilPs  chattering  voice  as  high- 
piped  as  the  bird-calls  through  the 
dawn;  on  into  the  open  country  of 
meadows  and  cultivated  fields,  the 
5  65 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

mists  lifting  rosy  before  the  coming 
sun,  through  lanes  with  mossy  banks, 
cobwebs  spun  between  the  blooming 
hedgerows  heavy  with  dew,  over 
the  hills,  past  the  straggling  ash  and 
hawthorn  of  the  dingles.  And  every- 
where the  cold,  moist  scent  of  dawn, 
and  peep  and  call  of  nest-birds. 

And  so  early  has  been  their  start 
and  so  good  stout  Robin's  pace,  that 
reaching  the  Snitterfield  farm,  they 
find  everything  in  the  hurly-burly  of 
preparation  for  sheep-shearing.  So, 
after  a  hearty  kissing  by  the  women- 
folk, aunts  and  cousins,  Will,  with  a 
cake  hot  from  the  baking  thrust  into 
his  hand,  goes  out  to  the  steading  to 
look  around.  At  Snitterfield  tin-re 
are  poultry,  and  calves,  too,  in  the 
66 


"Bound  for  Grandfather's  at  Snitterfield  they  were" 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

byre,  and  little  pigs  in  the  pen  back 
of  the  barn.  Then  comes  breakfast 
in  the  kitchen  with  the  farm-hands 
with  their  clattering  hobnailed  shoes 
and  tarry  hands,  after  which  follows 
the  business  of  sheep-washing,  which 
Will  views  from  the  shady  bank  of 
the  pool,  and  in  his  small  heart  he  is 
quite  torn  because  of  the  plaintive 
bleatings  of  the  frightened  sheep. 
But  he  swallows  it  as  a  man  should. 
There  is  a  pedler  haunting  the 
sheep-shearing  festivals  of  the 
neighborhood.  The  women  have 
sent  for  him  to  bring  his  pack  to 
Snitterfield,  and  Dad  bids  Will 
choose  a  pair  of  scented  gloves  for 
Mother — and  be  quick;  they  must 
be  off  for  Stratford  before  the  noon. 
69 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

Dad  seems  short  and  curt. 
Grandfather,  his  broad,  florid  face 
upturned  to  Dad  astride  Robin, 
shakes  his  hoary  head.  "Doan'  you 
do  it,  son  John,"  says  Grandfather; 
"  'tis  a-building  on  sand  is  any  man 
who  thinks  to  prosper  on  a  mort- 
gage. Henry  and  I'll  advance  you 
a  bit.  After  which,  cut  down  your 
living  in  Henley  Street,  son  John, 
an'  draw  in  the  purse-strings." 


VIII 

BUT  baby  years  pass.  When 
Will  Shakespeare  is  six,  he 
hears  that  he  is  to  go  to  school.  But 
not  to  nod  over  a  hornbook  at  the 
petty  school — not  John  Shakespeare's 
son!  Little  Will  Shakespeare  is  en- 
tered at  King's  New  College,  which 
is  a  grammar-school. 

But,  dear  me!  Dear  me!  It  was 
a  dreary  place  and  irksome.  At 
first  small  Will  sat  among  his  kind 
awed.  When  Schoolmaster  breathed 
Will  breathed,  but  when  School- 
master glanced  frowningly  up  from 
under  overhanging  brows  like  pent- 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

house  roofs,  then  the  heart  of  Will 
Shakespeare  quaked  within  him. 

But  that  was  while  he  was  si\. 
At  seven,  when  the  elements  of 
Latin  grammar  confronted  him, 
Will  had  already  found  grammar- 
school  an  excellent  place  to  plead 
aching  tooth  or  heavy  head  to  stay 
away  from.  At  eight,  a  dreary  trav- 
eling for  him  to  cover  did  his  "Srn- 
tcnt'nii'  rucriles"  prove,  and  idle- 
paths  more  pleasing. 

At  nine,  he  had  learned  to  know 
many  things  not  listed  at  grammar- 
school.  For  instance,  he  knew  one 
Bardolph  of  the  brazen,  fiery  nose, 
the  tapster  at  the  tavern.  It  was 
Bardolph  who  drew  him  out  from 
under  the  knee  and  belaboring  fists 
72 


'For  instance,  he  knew  one  Bardolph  ...  the  tapster 
at  the  tavern" 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

of  one  Thomas  Chettle,  another 
grammar-school  boy,  who  had  him 
down,  behind  High  Cross  in  the 
Rother  Market. 

"In  the  devil's  name,"  said  Bar- 
dolph,  setting  him  on  his  feet,  "with 
your  nose  all  gore  an'  never  an  eye 
you  can  open — what  do  you  mean, 
boy,  to  be  letting  the  like  of  that 
come  over  you?"  "That"  meant 
Thomas  Chettle,  his  fists  squared, 
and  as  red  as  any  fighting  turkey, 
held  off  at  armVlength  by  Bar- 
dolph. 

"Come  over  me!"  cries  Will,  with 
a  rush  at  Thomas,  head  down,  for 
all  his  being  held  off  by  BardolprTs 
other  hand.  "Who  says  he  has  come 
over  me?" 

75 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

Now  the  matter  stood  thus.  The 
day  before,  Will  Shakespeare  had 
followed  a  company  of  strolling 
mountebanks  about  town  instead  of 
going  to  school.  And  Thomas 
Chettle  had  told  Schoolmaster,  and 
he  had  told  Father.  When  Will 
reached  home  the  evening  before, 
Dad  was  telling  as  much  to  Mother 
and  blaming  her  for  it.  "An'  Chct- 
tle's  lad  admits  Will  had  ever  rather 
see  the  swords  an'  hear  a  drum  than 
look  upon  his  lessons— 

This  Father  was  saying  as  Will 
sidled  in.  Will  heard  him  sav  it. 
And  so  Thomas  Chettle  had  to  an- 
swer for  it. 

"Come  over  me!"  says  Will  to 
Bardolph  who  is  holding  him  off 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

and  contemplating  him,  a  battered 
wreck.  "Come  over  me!"  spitting 
blood  and  drawing  a  sleeve  across 
his  gory  countenance,  "I'd  like  to 
see  him  do  it!"  Will  Shakespeare 
was  not  one  to  know  when  he  was 
beaten. 


IX 

A  YEAR  or  two  more,  and 
school  grew  more  irksome. 
Father  fumed,  and  Mother  sighed 
and  drew  Will  against  her  knee 
whereon  lay  new  little  Sister  Ann 
while  little  Sister  Joan  toddled  about 
the  floor.  "Canst  not  seem  to  care  for 
your  books  at  all,  son?"  Mother 
asked,  brushing  Will's  red  brown 
hair  out  of  his  eyes.  "Canst  not  see 
how  it  frets  Father,  who  would  have 
his  oldest  son  a  scholar  and  a  gentle- 
man?" 

He  meant  to  try.    But  hadn't  Dad 
himself    let    him    off    one    day    to 
78 


"Hidden  among  the  willows  ...  he  spends  the  morning" 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

tramp  at  heels  after  him  and  Uncle 
Henry  in  Arden  Forest?  Will 
Shakespeare  at  eleven  is  a  sorry 
stinient. 

There  comes  a  day  when  he  is  a  big 
boy  near  thirteen  years  old.  It  is  a 
time  when  the  soft,  hot  winds  of 
spring  and  the  scent  and  the  pulse  of 
growing  things  get  in  the  blood,  ;imi 
<et  one  sick  panting  for  the  woods 
and  the  feel  of  the  lush  green  under- 
foot and  the  sound  of  running  water. 
Not  that  Will  Shakespeare  can  put 
it  into  words — he  only  knows  that 
when  the  smell  of  the  warm,  newly 
turned  earth  comes  in  at  the  school- 
room window  and  the  hum  of  a 
wandering  bee  rises  above  the  dron- 
ing of  the  lesson,  he  lolls  on  the 
6  81 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

hacked  and  ink-stained  desk  and 
gazes  out  at  the  white  clouds  fleck- 
ing the  blue,  and  all  the  truant  blood 
in  his  sturdy  frame  pulls  against  his 
promises. 

Then  at  length  comes  a  day 
when  the  madness  is  strong  upon 
him  and  he  hides  his  books,  his 
Cato's  Maxims,  or  perchance  his 
Confabulationes  Pueriles,  under  the 
garden  hedge,  and  skirting  the  town, 
makes  his  way  along  the  river.  And 
there,  hidden  among  the  willows 
and  green  alders  and  rustling  sedge, 
he  spends  the  morning;  and  when  in 
the  heat  of  the  day  the  fish  refuse 
to  nibble,  he  takes  his  hunk  of  bread 
out  of  his  pocket  and  lies  on  his  back 
among  the  rushes,  while  lazy  dreams 
82 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  I. AD 

flit  across  his  consciousness  as  the 
light  summer  clouds  rock  mistily 
across  the  blue. 

And,  the  wandering  madness  still 
upon  him,  in  the  afternoon  he  skirts 
about  and  tramps  toward  Shottery. 
It  is  no  new  thing  to  go  to  Shot 
tery  with  or  without  Mother  for  a 
day  at  the  Hathawa\s'.  There  al- 
ways has  been  rebellion  in  the  blood 
of  Will  Shakespeare,  and  there  is  a 
slender,  wayward,  grown-up  some- 
body at  Shottery  who  understands. 
Ann  Hathaway  has  stayed  often  in 
Stratford  with  the  Shakespeare 
household.  Mother  loves  Ann; 
Father  teases  and  twits  her;  the 
young  men,  swains  and  would-be 
sweethearts,  swarm  about  her  like 
83 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

bumblebees   about   the   honeysuckle 
at  the  garden  gate. 

And  when  she  is  there,  Will  him- 
self seldom  leaves  her  side.  He  has 
oft  been  a  rebellious  boy,  whereat 
Mother  has  sighed  and  Father  has 
sworn;  but  Ann,  staying  with  them, 
and  she  alone,  has  laughed.  She  has 
understood. 

And  there  have  been  times  when 
this  tall  brown-haired  young  pc 
has  seized  his  hand,  as  if  she  too 
had  moments  of  rebellion,  and  the 
two  have  run  away — away  from  the 
swains  and  the  would-be  sweet- 
hearts, the  Latin  grammar  and  the 
scoldings,  to  wander  about  the  river 
banks  and  the  lanes. 


SO  this  afternoon  Will  tramped 
off  to  Shottcry.  There  was  a 
consciousness  in  the  back  of  his  mind 
of  wonderful  leafiness  and  embower- 
ing, of  vines  and  riotous  bloom  about 
Ann's  home.  He  opened  the  wicket 
and  trudged  up  the  path,  and  peered 
in  at  the  open  door.  Ann,  within  the 
doorway,  saw  him.  She  looked  him 
in  the  eye,  then  up  at  the  sun  yet  high 
in  the  sky,  and  laughed.  And  he 
knew  she  understood  it — truancy. 

Perhaps  she  understood  more  than 
the  fact,  perhaps  she  understood  the 
feeling.  She  threw  her  work  aside, 

85 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

needle  stuck  therein,  and  clapped  a 
wide  straw  hat  upon  her  head  and 
taking  his  hand  dragged  him  down 
the  path  and  out  the  gate  and  away— 
along  the  Evesham  road. 

But  she  lectured  him  neverthe- 
less, this  red-cheeked  boy  with  the 
full  as  yet  undisciplined  young 
mouth  and  the  clear,  warm  ha/el 
eyes. 

"You  tell  me  that  I,  too,  throw 
my  work  down  and  run  away?  Ay, 
Will,  there's  that  hot  blood  within 
me  that  sweeps  me  out  every  now 
and  then  from  within  tame  walls 
and  from  stupid  people,  and  makes 
me  know  it  is  true,  the  old  tale  of 
some  wild,  gypsy  blood  brought 
home  by  a  soldier  Hathaway  for 
86 


"The   two   have   run   away  ...  to   wander   about   the 
river  banks." 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

wife.  But  there  is  this  difference, 
if  you  please,  sir;  I  throw  down  my 
work  because  I  have  fought  my 
fight  and  conquered  it,  am  mistress 
of  what  I  will  in  my  household 
craft.  Think  you  that  I  love  the 
molding  of  butter  and  the  care  of 
poultry,  or  to  spin,  to  cut,  to  sew, 
because  I  do  them  and  do  them 
well?  It  is  not  the  thing  I  love, 
Will — it  is  in  the  victory  I  find  the 
joy.  I  would  conquer  them  to  feel 
my  power.  Conquer  your  book, 
Will,  stride  ahead  of  your  class, 
then  play  your  fill  till  they  arrive 
abreast  of  you  again.  But  a  lag- 
gard, a  stupid,  or  a  middling!  And, 
in  faith,  the  last  is  worst." 
They  walked  along,  boy  and 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

young  woman,  she  musing,  he  look- 
ing up  with  young  ardor  into   hci 
face.     "You — you  are  so  beautiful, 
Ann,"  the  boy  blurted  forth,  "and- 
and — no  one  understands  as  you  do." 

She  laid  a  hand  on  his  shoulder 
and  turned  her  dark  eyes  upon  him. 
Teasing  eyes  they  could  be  and 
mocking,  yet  sweet,  too.  Ah,  sweet 
and  tender  through  their  laughter! 

"Shall  I  tell  you  why  I  under 
stand,  Will  Shakespeare,  child?" 
Was  she  talking  altogether  to  the 
boy,  or  above  his  head — aloud — as 
to  herself?  "I  am  a  woman,  Will, 
and  at  nineteen  most  such  are  al- 
ready wife  and  mother,  and  I  am 
still  unwed.  Shall  I  tell  you  why? 
We  are  but  souls  wandering  and 


"He  .  .  .  trudged  up  the  path  and  peered  in 
at  the  open  door" 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

lonely  in  the  dark,  Will,  other 
souls  everywhere  around,  but  scarce 
a  groping  hand  that  ever  meets  or 
touches  our  outstretched  own.  In 
all  life  we  feel  one  such  touch,  per- 
chance, or  two.  The  rest  we  know 
no  more  than  if  they  were  not  there. 
My  father,  great,  simple,  country- 
man's soul,  I  knew,  Will,  and  Mary 
Shakespeare  I  know.  Would  she 
might  learn  she  could  do  more  with 
John  through  laughter,  dear  heart; 
but  the  right  is  ever  stronger  with 
Mary  than  the  humor  of  the  thing. 
My  father  and  Mary  I  have  known. 
And  you,  you  I  knew  when  in  your 
rage  you  fell  upon  the  maid,  baby 
that  you  were  at  five,  and  beat  her 
with  your  fists  because  she  wantonly 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

swept  your  treasures — a  rose  petal, 
a  beetle  wing,  a  pebble,  a  feather- 
into  her  kitchen  fire.  I  knew  you 
then,  for  so  I  had  been  beating 
at  fate  my  life  long.  I  knew  you, 
Will,  and,  dear  child,  always  since 
I  have  watched  and  understood. 
Rebel  if  you  will;  be  free;  but  to 
be  free,  forget  not,  is  to  be  conqueror 
over  that  within  self  first." 

Will  caught  her  hand;  he  whis- 
pered; his  voice  burned  hot  with  a 
child's  jealousy. 

"  Tis  said  you  are  to  wed  Abra- 
ham Stripling,  Ann,  an'  that  the 
foreign  doctor  who  wants  to  wed 
you,  broke  Abra'nVs  head  with  his 
pestle." 

Ann  Hathaway  laughed;  her  eyes 
92 


'When  the  masterful  hand,  groping,  seizes 
mine,  I  shall  know  it'  " 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

were  mocking  now;  she  backed 
against  the  lichened  trunk  of  a  giant 
elm  by  the  roadside,  a  young,  beau- 
teous thing,  and  looked  at  the  boy  in 
scorn.  "I  to  marry  Abraham  Strip- 
ling! Child  though  you  are,  you 
know  me  better  than  that.  Did  I 
not  just  tell  you  I  am  free  now- 
free?  That  I  have  held  fast  to  my 
duty,  and  so  come  to  where  I  might 
be  free?  Have  held  them  at  bay 

—family,  cousins,  elders,  sweet- 
hearts— until  now,  the  rest  married 
and  gone,  and  the  tasks  as  they  gave 
them  up  come  to  be  mine,  my  mother 
needs  me,  and  my  life  may  be  my 
own — and  free.  For  who  has  come 
to  wed  me?  Did  I  not  just  say  I  was 

-I  am — free?    A  soul  groping  lone- 
95 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

ly  in  the  dark?  No  man's  hand  has 
reached  toward  mine  that  I,  a  wom- 
an and  a  weakling,  could  not  shake 
off.  When  the  masterful  hand, 
groping,  seizes  mine,  I  shall  know 
it,  and  I — I  will  kiss  it  with  my  lips 
—and — and  follow  after." 

She  came  back  to  him  as  one 
from  an  ecstasy.  "And  now,  child, 
go  on  home.  It  is  late.  And  hurry 
or  Mary  will  be  fretting.  You  have 
had  your  cake  and  eaten  it.  Now 
go  pay  for  it.  'Discipline  must  pe 
maintained,'  says  your  Welsh  school- 
master. And  sure  he  will  flog  you." 


XI 


BUT  no  one  at  home  had  missed 
him.  The  Henley  Street  house 
was  full  of  hurry  and  confusion  when 
he  arrived.  No  one  noticed  him. 
The  neighbors  came  in  and  out, 
Mistress  Sadler  and  Mistress  Snell- 
ing,  and  the  foreign  doctor  who 
would  like  to  wed  Ann,  or  passed 
on  up  to  a  room  above,  where  little 
sister  Annie,  named  for  Ann  Hath- 
away, lay  dying  of  a  sudden  croup. 
And  all  since  morning,  since  Will 
stole  away. 

He  knows  this  thing  called  Life, 
this    deep    inbreathing,   this   joy   of 
7  97 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

shout,  of  run,  of  leap,  of  vault.  He 
knows — strong  healthy  young  ani- 
mal— he  knows  this  thing.  But  the 
other — this  strange  thing  called 
Death:  the  darkened  room;  Father 
with  his  head  fallen  on  his  breast 
standing  at  the  lattice  gazing  out  at 
nothing;  Mother  kneeling,  one  arm 
outstretched  across  the  bed,  her  head 
fallen  thereon,  and  Mistress  Sadler 
trying  to  raise  and  lead  her  away; 
and  this — this  waxen  whiteness 
framed  in  flaxen  baby  rings  on  the 
pillow — this  little  stiffening  hand 
outside  the  linen  cover? 

Will  Shakespeare  cries  out.  He 
has  touched  little  sister  Annie's 
hand  and  it  is  cold. 


1 


J 
1 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

father  would  have  left  them,  'John 
Shakespeare,  Gentleman/  they  are 
to  read  it — what?" 

"John,  John,"  said  Mother,  "is 
there  no  more  then  in  it  all — our 
love,  our  lives — than  pride?" 

Pride!  Will  Shakespeare  by  now 
knew  what  it  meant,  and  his  heart 
went  out  to  his  father.  He  had  felt 
the  sting  of  this  thing  himself.  It 
had  been  the  year  before.  Dad  had 
taken  him  behind  him  on  his  horse 
to  Kenilworth,  to  see  the  masks  and 
fireworks  given  by  the  Earl  of  Lei- 
cester in  the  Queen's  honor.  The 
gay  London  people  come  down  with 
the  court  had  sat  in  stands  and  gal- 
leries to  witness  the  spectacle  of  the 
water  pageant,  breathing  their  per- 
100 


[Dad  .  .  .  sat  staring  in  moody  silence" 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

fumed  breath  down  upon  the  coun- 
try people  crowding  the  ground  be- 
low. And  Will  Shakespeare  among 
these,  at  sight  of  the  great  Queen, 
had  cheered  with  a  lusty  young 
throat  and  thrown  his  cap  up  with 
the  rest.  Will  Shakespeare  was  the 
once  chief  bailiffs  son.  He  was  the 
son  of  Mary  Arden  of  the  Asbies. 
Though  he  never  had  thought  about 
it  one  way  or  another,  he  had  al- 
ways known  himself  as  good  as  the 
best. 

And  so  at  Kenilworth,  standing 
with  the  crowd  and  looking  up  at 
the  jeweled  folk  in  fine  array  cast- 
ing their  jokes  and  gibes  down  at 
the  trammel,  he  had  laughed,  too, 
as  honest  as  any.  But  when  the  time 
103 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

came  for  the  water  pageant,  Dad 
had  given  him  a  lift  up  and  a  boost 
to  the  branches  of  a  tree.  And  he 
had  heard  what  she  said,  the  lady 
upon  whom  he  had  from  the  first 
fixed  his  young  gaze,  the  dark  lady, 
with  the  jewels  in  her  dusky  hair, 
breathing  lure  and  beauty  and 
glamour.  As  he  straddled  the  limb 
of  his  high  perch  that  brought  him 
so  near  her,  he  heard  her  cry  out, 
her  head  thrown  backward  on  her 
proud  young  throat:  "Ah,  the  little 
beast,  bringing  the  breath  of  the  rab- 
ble up  to  our  nostrils." 

And  it  was  something  like  to  what 

burned  in  young  Will  Shakepeare's 

soul  then  that  Dad  was  feeling  now. 

Will,  big  boy  that  he  was,  laid  a 

104 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

hand  on  Dad's  hand.    Father  looked 
up;  their  eyes  met. 

Dad  threw  an  arm  about  his 
shoulder  and  drew  him  close- 
father  and  son. 

Something  passed  from  the  older 
to  the  younger.  The  boy  squared 
his  shoulders.  The  man  in  Will 
Shakespeare  was  born. 

How  best  could  he  help  Dad? 
So  the  lad  pondered,  meanwhile 
digging  the  sense  piecemeal  out  of 
his  Ovid  for  the  morrow's  lesson. 

"It   is   the    mind   that   makes   the 
man,   and   our  strength — measure- 
vigor" — any  one  of  the  three  words 
would  do — "our  measure  is  in  our 
immortal  souls" 

Why — why     is     there     truth     in 
105 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

books?  Had  Ovid  lived  and  been  a 
man,  a  man  who  knew  and  fought 
it  out  himself? 

Will  Shakespeare  caught  sight  of 
a  great  and  glorious  kingdom  he  had 
not  visioned  before.  The  school- 
master hitherto  had  talked  in  riddles. 


XIII 

YET  a  year  after  this  Will  Shake- 
speare, just  awakened  to  a  love 
of  letters,  threw  his  books  down. 
Mother's  brown  hair,  as  she  leaned 
over  her  new  child,  Edmund, 
showed  lines  of  gray.  Dad,  the 
day's  trade  over,  sat  brooding  at 
home,  and  scarce  would  hie  him 
forth,  the  fear  of  process  for  debt 
hanging  over  him. 

Tall     sturdy    Will     Shakespeare 

could  buy  up  cattle  and  trade  for 

hides  as  well  as  the  butcher's  son  in 

Rother  Market.     Will  Shakespeare 

107 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

threw    down    his    books    and    went 
forth  into  the  world — a  man. 

A  man?  A  man,  yes;  once  his 
stripling  days  of  hot  blood  are  over, 
days  of  rustic  rout,  of  fight  and 
wrestle,  of  deer-stealing,  of  wander- 
ings with  strolling  players;  a  man, 
husband  to  Ann  Hathaway,  father 
of  children,  son  of  Mary  Arden  of 
the  Asbies,  Gentlewoman — of  John 
Shakespeare,  failure,  who  would  be 
Gentleman;  a  man,  this  William 
Shakespeare,  gone  up  to  London  to 
do  a  part  in  the  world.  In  the 
world?  This  world  wherein  all  is 
gain  and  nothing  loss,  does  one  but 
make  it  so;  all  is  garnering;  all  is 
treasure;  all,  if  so  one  deem  it,  is 
pageant,  poetry,  and  drama;  the  rus- 
108 


"Tall,  sturdy  Will   Shakespeare  could  buy  up  cattle 
well  as  the  butcher's  son" 


.  as 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

tic,  the  maid,  the  gammer,  the  tap- 
ster, the  schoolboy,  the  master;  the 
lubberfolk,  the  witch,  the  fairy,  the 
elf,  the  goblin,;  the  fat  woman  of 
Brentford,  the  man  dwelling  by  the 
churchyard,  Snelling,  Sadler,  Bar- 
dolph,  Clowder,  the  old  dog;  the 
mummer,  the  wait,  the  revel,  the 
cates  and  ale,  the  player  strutting 
the  stage  as  Herod;  the  sheep- 
shearing,  the  pedler,  the  glove;  the 
white  rose  and  the  red;  the  Princes 
in  the  tower;  St.  George  and  vic- 
tory; king,  knight,  soldier;  the  Avon 
sweetly  flowing  in  its  banks;  the  for- 
est; the  clouds  rocking  across  the 
blue;  stripling;  the  foreign  doctor; 
queen,  courtier,  lady;  love,  life, 
death;  hope,  struggle,  despair; 
in 


A  WARWICKSHIRE  LAD 

pride,  ambition,  failure;  vision, 
striving,  achievement;  wisdom, 
philosophy,  contemplation;  into  the 
world  where  all  is  gain  and  nothing 
loss,  does  one  make  it  so,  went  Wil- 
liam Shakespeare  of  Stratford,  to 
conquer. 

(2) 


'D     I  I 

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